


Amongst the Sheltering Pines

by Arej



Series: Ineffable Advent 2019 [11]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Other, Unspoken Confessions, aziraphale finally answers a grand gesture, some fluff for the season, they're not really male but it's m/m since i used male pronouns throughout, which isn't so much grand by crowley's standards but would be by...anyone else's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:13:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21764314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arej/pseuds/Arej
Summary: Day 11 for the advent calendar of prompts.Crowley calls the angel over to look at something, and Aziraphale sees (and hears) something even deeper.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Advent 2019 [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561027
Comments: 14
Kudos: 208





	Amongst the Sheltering Pines

When Aziraphale opens the door to Crowley’s flat, he stops.

Stares.

Takes a step back, into the hallway, to check and be sure he’s got the right flat. Yes, there’s that adorable snake buzzer; it’s a custom piece, one-of-a-kind, so there’s no chance he’s in the wrong place, no matter what the interior looks like.

He pats the buzzer on its burnished head before braving the inside once more and closing the door behind him.

“Angel!” Crowley calls from…somewhere. His normally barren flat makes it difficult to pinpoint his location at the best of times, what with the echoing, but now…

“Crowley?”

“Over here, angel!”

“Over _where_ ,” he mutters peevishly, but steps forward nonetheless. He’s so taken in by the new surroundings that when his brogues strike familiar concrete, it’s a surprise. The changes had seemed rather…complete.

“Angel, c’mon, come look!”

Aziraphale sighs and threads his way through the flat, careful not to touch anything. He’s not entirely sure whether it’s safe to be touching, anyway. 

He follows the occasional demon call in a ludicrous game of - what is it called again, Hide and Seek? No, not that - Marco Polo, yes, that’s the one - as best he can, and works his way deeper into the flat, until finally he rounds an obstacle and stops.

Stares, for the second time in under five minutes, absolutely dumbfounded. 

Crowley beams at him.

“Finally found the right one!” He gestures grandly at the tree behind him, decked in silver and blue, topped with a shining star. It glitters softly; glows, lit from within. “Isn’t it perfect? Look!”

There are pine needles in Crowley’s hair.

“It’s - it’s lovely, dear,” Aziraphale manages. Something complicated is wriggling in his chest, somewhere between fondness and disappointment; Crowley’s gone and found a tree, and decorated it, and while it truly is lovely, well. He’d hoped they might do that together, this year. Now that…well. No matter. “You’ve done a lovely job with the trimmings.”

“With the - oh, right.” Crowley snaps, and the tree goes dark, ornaments winking out of existence. “’S not the point. Look at it _now_.”

The demon flourishes again at the now bare tree, so Aziraphale does, although he’s not sure what he’s looking _at_ , now; with the trimmings gone, it looks like any other tree, albeit one incongruously planted in the middle of a Mayfair flat. “But - your decorations?”

“Got to confirm it will hold up under pressure,” Crowley answers. “I had to make sure it lit right, the branches were sturdy enough, all that. Make sure we start with perfection.”

 _We_. It echoes in Aziraphale’s chest, bounces against his ribs. _We_. “So you…tested it?”

“’Course I did,” he scoffs. “Tested them all, didn’t I, and for the best, too. None of the others measured up.”

He turns slitted eyes on the rest of the room, and the pine forest packed into every conceivable crevice - and quite a few inconceivable ones, besides - quails in fear. Aziraphale can feel the trees at his back rustling as if in a stiff breeze; even the chosen one trembles, just a bit. The quivering of branches, besides communicating coniferous terror, releases a veritable cloud of scent. Aziraphale breathes it in, smiles.

“Pine?”

“Scots pine specifically,” Crowley replies absently, still focused on the terrified trees. “Only the best for - oi! You there! Shedding needles on the floor, don’t think I don’t see you -”

 _Only the best_.

Crowley is off, scolding trees with slitted eyes and a shaking finger, and Aziraphale can’t help but stare after him, besotted.

 _Only the best_ , he’d said. For what didn’t matter; the implication is clear. There are at least three dozen trees, probably more, packed into the flat, stretching as far as the angel can see, crowding out even the minimal furniture. Through the shaking branches he can just spot the edge of the monstrosity Crowley calls a chair, the arcing wing of his saucy statuary, flashes of shining chrome through what he knows to be a doorway to the kitchen; he can see more evergreens marching into the room beyond. Trees fill nearly all the available space, with only the barest paths between them through which Crowley now stalks, hissing.

 _Only the best_ , he’d said, and dragged half a forest into his flat to be sure. Called, insisted Aziraphale rush over to see, to confirm.

 _Only the best_.

“- half a mind to send you lot straight to the wood chipper, what a disgrace to your name -”

 _Only the best_.

It sounds rather a lot like _I love you_.

“Crowley.”

“- forget about the wood chipper, it’s the bonfire for you, see if I won’t -”

“ _Crowley_.”

“- pathetic excuses for trees don’t deserve -” the demon stops mid-tirade, spins to face Aziraphale. “Yes, angel?”

Aziraphale drinks in the sight of him: long, lean legs poured into tight trousers, the sleeves of his henley shoved haphazardly to the elbows, face pink from shouting. Eyes left bare and open like unshuttered lanterns, here in the safety of his home, where it’s just the two of them and a few dozen terrified trees.

Pine needles in his hair.

“Keep them.” 

“Can’t reward bad behavior,” Crowley argues. He shoots a narrow-eyed look at the chosen tree, which wriggles under the scrutiny. “They’ll set a poor example for ours.”

 _Ours_.

“Keep them,” Aziraphale replies, bundling Crowley’s hands in his and stepping backwards, slipping between branches. 

“All of them?” Crowley follows, eyes and face and voice softening. “’S a lot - there’s a lot of trees.”

Aziraphale tugs him closer, deeper into the trees, into the sheltering, pine-scented gloom of a forest-crowded flat. “Just for a while, then. For me.”

“Anything for you, angel.”

_Only the best._

_Anything for you_ , as if the alternative didn’t exist.

_Ours._

There’s nothing but greenery around them, now; trees crowd in from every angle, curving away just shy of brushing against the duo, careful not to touch. Aziraphale has no such qualms as he leads them deeper into this casual miracle, this unintentionally grand gesture; his hands release Crowley’s only to slide down and around and behind, spread across the planes of the demon’s back. Crowley’s own hands flutter helplessly to the angel’s hips, rest there, feather-light. There is a question in his golden eyes, on the tremble of his lips.

The scents of green, of pine fill the air, the flat, the bare sliver of space between them, wrap there around the spicy-sweet musk of Crowley, merge with it, flood Aziraphale’s lungs, his heart, his soul. He draws a willing Crowley tight against him, draws a deep breath, holds them both. 

Draws their lips together, here in the sheltering forest of settling pines, in the middle of this miracle, this grand gesture. Kisses him soft, at first, soft as a promise, soft as an answer. Kisses him deeper, chasing sweet spice and pine. Kisses him again, and again, and again, and there is no space between them, no question now in eyes or on occupied lips.

_Only the best._


End file.
